


the fight was my home, blood was my trade

by junkeroni (hotdammneron)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Fighting, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, a little bit more strangers to lovers to friends then back to lovers, be the bitchy roommate evgeny kuznetsov would want you to be, bitchy interviewers and the big swedes who want to kill them, decent amounts of alcohol, disgraced retired professional boxers at age 26, gentle vilification of mike green as a plot device, gratuitous mentions of nicklas backstroms haircolor, kuzy is still a hockey player, maybe slow burn, mean lars, more of a mean lars kink than a fight kink, willylatts is intended but kinda background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotdammneron/pseuds/junkeroni
Summary: Sasha's used to knocking his friends out for fun, but maybe it helps that Nicklas doesn't try to make himself a friend.





	the fight was my home, blood was my trade

**Author's Note:**

> if you're looking for something with a comprehensive understanding of the sport of boxing and the rules and maneuvers therein: this may not be what you're looking for! if you're looking for something kinda sad and kinda sweet where various men get beat up a lot: welcome!
> 
>  
> 
> title taken from the hitter by bruce springsteen, if anyones wondering

_"For now there's just a bar of soap, toothpaste_

_and a razor. Soon they'll rub you down_

_with oils until you shine, until you're slick_

_to the touch. Every muscle has a name_

_and they'll see every one, that crowd all turned_

_out in their handmade suits and alligator_

_shoes. No one will be more beautiful_

_than you though. Gleaming. Your body burnished_

_in those lights with the ring girls walking past._

_And in the last rounds too with your lip torn_

_open, your eye already starting to swell._

_Most beautiful."_

_-Gabrielle Calvocoressi, Training Camp, Deer Lake, PA_

 

Sometimes the lights are so bright that it's all Sasha can do to keep his eyes open.  It's near blinding, the flickering of the bulb in the ceiling above the mat, and he doesn't let it distract him.  Sasha focuses on his body instead - the pull in his shoulders, the movement of his hips as he ducks away, the mat pressing against his heels. He counts his breaths, tries to guess Nicklas' next move and dodge in time. The hit connects with Sasha's jaw anyway.

Maybe this is what makes Nicklas so good to practice with. He knows Sasha, but he can move like an opponent he's never faced. He's unpredictable. Sasha has fought him hundreds of times now, but he can't read his mind. Every fight with him is new.

Sasha's used to knocking his friends out for fun, but maybe it helps that Nicklas doesn't try to make himself a friend.

He tries to get his head straight, presses his fingertips to where the pain is, just at the hinge of his jaw. Nicklas just glares, his mouth set in a firm line. Sasha's taking too long; he always does. He knows he wouldn't get this much time to recuperate in a more serious match. Get over it, move on, you've had worse, you'll get worse if you don't make a fucking move.

The problem is, Nicklas is unpredictable, and Sasha has to be twice as unpredictable. Sasha circles him, throws a punch that he evades like he saw it from a mile away. So much for surprising.

By the time that Nicklas calls practice, Sasha is exhausted. It feels like they've been at it for hours, like the only place Sasha has ever been, ever will be, is the gym, empty save for the two of them. Nicklas leans his weight against the ropes, peeling the tape from around his own wrists. Practiced, patient. Tender, even, like he hadn't just hit Sasha so hard he wanted to cry, wanted to pray.

Sasha doesn't say anything as he leaves. There's nothing to say, outside of the four rope walls that sometimes feel like home. The only place where everything's fair, where he can knock someone's teeth out and that's the end of the conversation. Everything’s forgiven, here.

Nicklas stays in the gym, and Sasha unwraps his own bleeding knuckles. The towel around his neck feels heavier than it's ever been.

 

Sometimes, only sometimes, Sasha dreams. They aren't - they aren't _good_ dreams, by any definition, but they aren't bad.

He dreams of life back in Moscow, an average job, an average house, maybe even an above average wife to come home to at night.

He dreams about the wrappings, so tight around his wrists that he can't feel anything.

He dreams about a spread of golden hair across a pillow, across his pillow. Halfway through October when the leaves are changing colors, maybe that's what it looks like. Messy, never brushed, knotted from nervous fingers running through it.

He dreams about Nicklas, broad shoulders, strong arms, strong enough to hit a man until he bleeds, until he falls to his knees. His hair, like wheat in the peak of the season, always tangled and sticking out of his headgear, shining in the flickering light. The way it curls, plastered to the sweat on his neck as he leans, panting, against the ropes. His hands, gentle but sure, wrapping the cloth around Sasha's wrists, up, around the thumb.

He dreams about looking up, someone standing over him. Nicklas, Nicklas standing over him, fingertips on his chin, exponentially softer than he touches him between the ropes. His eyes, warmer, kinder, bordering on praising, fond. Nicklas, lit from above, the steady light haloing his head, like a saint, an angel, however far from holy.

He dreams about Nicklas and he wakes up sweating.

 

"We aren't fucking dancing," Nicklas spits, nose bleeding, lip cracked. A part of Sasha feels bad; a part of Sasha wants to win. "Put some fucking muscle into it, Ovechkin."

"Your nose okay?" Sasha asks, the worrying side winning out. Nicklas puts his fists back up.

"Doesn't fucking matter," he replies, spitting onto the mat. "Make yourself a smaller target. You're too easy to hit."

Nicklas punches him. He's just proving his point. Sasha ducks his shoulders, brings his arms in, makes himself smaller.

They aren't friends.

 

Zhenya goes out, and he makes Sasha go with him.

He doesn't know what he expected, really. Get drunk, meet a nice girl, go back to her apartment. Pray she doesn't want a second date. Pray she doesn't want much.

Sure, Sasha gets drunk. Zhenya doesn't drink, so he spends his money on Sasha instead, pushing another bunch of bills across the counter every time he thinks about stopping for the night. Sasha drinks, Zhenya laughs too loud at his jokes, and Sasha laughs louder.

The drinks taste cheap, and Sasha tosses a peanut shell halfheartedly across the table. He misses Zhenya's face by nearly half a foot, but he pumps his fist triumphantly anyway.

"You coming home tonight?" Zhenya asks, flicking a retaliatory peanut shell with the practiced aim of a man who does this far too much. It lands in Sasha's hair, and he can't be bothered to pull it out.

And, well. Sasha wants to stay out. It feels like there's fire burning under his skin, he wants action, he wants some kind of release, bruises on his knuckles, better ones yet on his collarbones. He wants-

So maybe Sasha has a type. And sure, there are blondes at the bar, of course there are. None of them look like they could pin Sasha to the mat, to a bed, leave him panting, bruised, exhausted. None of them are quite right.

None of them are - well. Sasha doesn't want to finish that thought.

"We go home," Sasha says instead, and bumps his half full glass against Zhenya's knuckles in some shitty approximation of a toast.

 

Sasha gets Nicklas down for a ten count, and it's the best he's felt in years.

After, in the locker room, Nicklas grins at him, clearing blood from his eyebrow with a wet cloth. It's a real smile, even if it looks like a grimace, the first one Sasha's seen from him. It's better than winning.

 

Nicklas doesn't fight, not in actual, arranged matches. Nothing where he'll get his ass kicked only to find out he's won with his eye swelling shut. He doesn't get the thrill of the announcers calling out his name, the rush of championship, everyone in the whole damn building screaming for him.

What Nicklas gets, apparently, is this; the empty gym, Sasha his sole company. Pushing him to go faster, get more hits in, dodge more than he takes. His own stoic, silent celebration when he reigns victorious another day, another match. The reliable steadiness of the mat under his feet, the ropes, the light flickering overhead. He gets the cloth around his wrists and a split lip, the sharp, dizzying taste of blood in his mouth.

He might have more than this, Sasha doesn't know. Nicklas could have a wife, children, for all he knows. He could have a wife and children and decide the best use of his time is teaching a near stranger how to break another stranger's bones.

They don't talk much.

 

Curiosity’s a bitch, as far as Sasha's concerned.

It's just, Sasha's a good fighter. He's got his fair share of wins, against anyone but Nicklas. Sasha's a good fighter but Nicklas is just _better,_ like he was born with a single purpose - winning. He was born to win, born to have a sheen of sweat on his forehead and intensity in his eyes when he leaves Sasha heaving on the mat.

Nicklas doesn't fight, but he's the best goddamn fighter Sasha's ever met, ever gone up against. He's had his ass kicked by Nicklas more times than he can count, but Nicklas doesn't fight. It just doesn't make any sense.

Sasha, driven by what can only be described as sheer nosiness and what he’s been told is natural bullheadedness, goes to the library.

By virtue of the world fucking hating him, Sasha walks a mile in the terrible DC weather to the library and finds nothing.

It's not that he expected to find, whatever, a _book_ about Nicklas Bäckström, or something. He was just expecting to find something. Anything. The books are, of course, devoid of any mention of Nicklas. He tries the newspaper, and, of course, nothing.

Well. Not quite nothing.

There's one article, in a newspaper from 2004 - a few years before Sasha moved, a few years more before he met Nicklas. An article from 2004, and the title says _something_ about Nicklas Bäckström, but that's the thing. The only part of the title, let alone the article itself, that Sasha can even come close to understanding is that name.

The whole article is in Swedish, because God has some kind of vendetta against Sasha Ovechkin and Sasha Ovechkin only. Sasha, having never needed to speak Swedish, does not speak a word of Swedish. It starts to snow on the walk home, because everything is terrible.

 

When Nicklas talks it sounds like a weapon. It sounds like a threat. Sometimes he reminds Sasha of his old skating coach - she was older, Russian, used her words as a knife. She timed his laps until he got better, until he was the fastest damn skater on the youth team, until-

It doesn't matter what he could have done in Moscow. He's not in Moscow anymore.

He's not in Moscow, he's in DC, and when Nicklas criticizes his form for the fifth time in one practice, it feels like a stab in the chest. Sasha just grins.

When Nicklas pushes his hair back from his sweaty forehead, glaring murderously, Sasha could swear that he's in love.

 

Nicklas makes him jump rope for nearly half an hour before he takes mercy on Sasha's poor, exhausted, sweaty soul. Sasha takes a break, goes into the corridor, drinks more water than he should. He wants to collapse against the wall, slump into the ground until he melts into the cracks in the molding and seeps into the floorboards.

He goes back in, Nicklas wraps his hands, and punches him in the gut until Sasha thinks he's going to die.

"You would hurt less if you dodged more," Nicklas comments, sitting across the mat from Sasha. His hands are on his knees, his garishly blue shorts pushed up his thighs. Sasha is delirious, but he thinks Nicklas would be just as beautiful were he more coherent.

"If you always want to hit, you're always going to _get_ hit. You're focusing on offense, which is good, but you need to defend yourself," He continues, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair, getting his fingers caught in the tangled curls at the end. "Everyone wants to hit you, and you want to hit them, but you need to stop letting them hit you."

"Maybe you hit too much," Sasha says. "Maybe I try to hit you, and you hit me first, yeah?"

Nicklas rolls his eyes. "Then don't let me hit you," he snaps, like Sasha's the difficult one here.

 

It's worse on nights after they train, which is most nights now.

On training nights, Sasha lays awake in bed for hours, can't sleep. He thinks about Nicklas, sweating, breathing labored, furious. He thinks about Nicklas under him on the mat, pinned for Sasha's second win of the week. He thinks about Nicklas, his eyes darting back and forth, never settling on just one place, one target.

He thinks about Nicklas until he falls asleep, and he sleeps, and he dreams of Nicklas.

The fighting doesn't help.

 

"Do you speak Swedish?" Sasha asks immediately after he almost knocks the front door down. It’s good to come home, stop having to push himself into English, letting himself settle back into the familiar syllables of Russian, at least for a while.

"What the fuck?" Zhenya startles awake, sprawled out on the terrible couch. Pre-game nap, or something. "No, no Swedish. Russian, yes, English, yes. Swedish, no.  Why the _fuck_ would I need Swedish?"

Sasha shakes his head, clicks his tongue in that disappointed way he knows that Zhenya hates with a passion. "I knew you were no use," he chides, pulling off his rain-soaked hat and taking the minimal free space on the couch.

"Why the fuck do _you_ need to speak Swedish?" Zhenya asks, shoving his terribly cold feet under Sasha's thigh. It's what he deserves.

"Maybe I met a nice girl," Sasha says, dropping his wet hat on Zhenya's knee. He gets kicked in the thigh for his troubles, the ingrate. "Maybe she told me we can only date if I know Swedish. It's none of your fucking business, okay?”

"Bullshit," Zhenya says. He cracks an eye open, glaring at Sasha in a way that could be intimidating if Sasha didn't know him so well. "Is this about the little Swedish instructor at the gym?"

"What little Swedish instructor at the gym?"

"Ugh, Buransky, something like that. Swedish name. Bad hair, can't be more than nineteen. Never thought you were some kind of cradle robber, Sasha."

"No, not him. That’s too young, he's a baby, Zhenya, I would never," Sasha says, feigning offense. "It’s never about baby Swede."

"Whatever, go take your Swedish problem somewhere else," Zhenya replies, twisting himself to roll onto his side without moving his feet. "Let me sleep, jackass.  If I do bad tonight, it's your fault."

"You never do bad," Sasha says, reaching for the weird wool blanket on the floor and throwing it haphazardly over Zhenya's shoulders.

"’S your fault when I do," Zhenya says, muffled by the blanket, now pulled over his face. "You’d better be there."

 

The rink is cold. It should be a given by now, a big poorly insulated room with a giant slab of ice in the middle. Sasha's coat takes up a seat of its own, and he desperately wishes he had someone to talk to.

The Shakers always play a half decent game, but Sasha doesn't think they've ever gotten even close to selling out the stands. It feels weird, watching hockey sometimes, trying not to think about what he could have done, how good he could have been. He goes anyway.

Zhenya's good- he's not the best, not on the first line, but he should be. He gets a fighting call three minutes into the second, and Sasha cheers.

The Shakers are half decent, but that's it. Zhenya scores the second of their two goals in the end of the third, barely dragging it into overtime.  The other team gets the lead back at the beginning of OT, and it's over.

 

Sasha sees just a glance of curling hair, golden, shining slightly, a heavy grey sweater. He can't be sure, he can never be sure, but- he thinks about split knuckles, broad shoulders, goldenrod curls, clinging to the sweat on the back of his neck.

If he were any more of a fool, Sasha would have followed him.

Instead, he goes to the locker room, thumps Zhenya's shoulder, waits by the door for him to be ready. They go out, and Sasha drinks. He drinks and doesn't think about Nicklas. He drinks until he can't tell one slim-shouldered blonde from the next, like he's looking for any of them anyway.

 

On Wednesday, Sasha goes to the gym. It's not crowded, just a few people in the weight room, one who Sasha thinks might be Zhenya's baby Swede. He's lanky, seems too tall when he's spotting someone on the bench. Bad hair, that's one thing that Zhenya got right. Definitely not Sasha's type, at the very least.

He can't fight without a partner, but the bag is reliable, trustworthy, permanent. It always swings back to his raised fist, and it reminds Sasha of something, though he isn't sure what. He goes at the bag until his knuckles bleed, until his shoulders ache from the angle of his arms. It's something that Nicklas would make him do, were he here, working the bag, jumping rope until he feels sick. Going back to the bag.

 _Focusing on offense_ , he thinks, and goes to try and find someone willing to punch him in the gut for an hour.

 

Nicklas isn't there the next day, or the next. Sasha worries, but it's not like he can call him, stop by his house and see if he's bleeding out on his kitchen floor. It's not like they're friends.

All Sasha has to reassure him that Nicklas is even real is the microfilm he stole from the library and the freshest bumps in his nose.

 

Just because Nicklas is mysteriously absent from the gym doesn't mean that Sasha can't train. Obviously. That would be ludicrous.

He finds someone who might work at the gym, some huge dude named Tom who doesn't seem at all hesitant to punch him in the face. Tom makes Sasha go out for drinks after they train sometimes, and it’s nice to talk to someone other than Zhenya. It’s nice to get his ass handed to him in the ring and be able to call the guy who did it something close to a friend.

Tom doesn't have nearly as many critiques as Nicklas usually does, and Sasha thinks it might be more out of fear than anything else. Sure, Tom's taller than he is, built like a fucking fridge, but Sasha's been told he gives off a slightly manic and murderous energy at times that makes people hesitant to tell him that he's wrong.

Sasha throws more hits than he takes. He thinks Nicklas would be happy, might even smile that weird little half smile, if he were there to see it.

 

"D'you fight? Like, actual matches?" Tom asks one evening, finishing Sasha's disappointingly light beer. He had his own, of course, before Sasha pushed his over in favor of something that wasn't quite as disgusting.

Sasha nods, doesn't point out the beer foam on Tom's chin, no matter how much he wants to. "I get invited to matches sometimes," he says, staring into his glass. "Mostly I train with Nicklas, get better so I'm good enough to fight. Eventually I fight, win a lot, get money."

"Nicklas?" Tom asks, his forehead wrinkled with what's either confusion or pseudo-drunken idiocy. Maybe it’s a little generous to blame the idiocy on the alcohol.

"Nicklas," Sasha starts, trying to think of any way to explain this, to explain _Nicklas_ , concisely, in English. "He's a good fighter. You might see him around the gym? There at night, mostly, big guy, good in the ring. Swedish, maybe."

"Oh," Tom says, his eyes getting wide. He's drunker than previously estimated. "Oh, oh fuck."

 

After a week and a half that feels like a lifetime, Nicklas is there when Sasha gets to the gym. It's like nothing's changed; like Sasha hasn't been worrying, like Nicklas hasn't just disappeared. He doesn't look any different - he's still pale and towheaded, hair still pushed back.  He still looks like he could kill Sasha without thinking twice.

Sasha watches his back while he changes, the definition of his shoulders, the dip of the small of his back. Nicklas looks the same, and Sasha isn't sure what he was looking for, some kind of drastic change to his outward appearance to give some kind of clue to where the hell he's been. And what would it be, even, a haircut, a tattoo? Of course not. He looks the same. Sasha tears his eyes away from the curve of his spine.

 

"You're getting better," Nicklas says in the ring, sweat shining on his forehead. The light overhead flickers and Sasha can't think right, between the distraction of the faulty bulb and Nicklas' presence, after so long, back in the ring like nothing's wrong. "Don't let it get to your head. You're better, but you're still not the best."

"So inspiring," Sasha says, trying to focus, get his head back in that single-minded frame of thought. There should be nothing to think about but dodging Nicklas' blows, trying to get him back. "You go into career as motivational speaker?"

"Shut up," Nicklas answers, charming as ever, and Sasha's heart flips. "Stop trying to be funny, start trying to not get hit."

Nicklas sounds angry, but Sasha thinks he might be smiling, just a little. It's the high point of his week, by far.

 

There's a bar that Sasha likes to go to some nights, with its towering brick walls covered in drunk people's handwriting. It's Russian, used to be a front for something in the 80's. The owner showed Sasha the back room once, something about meetings and someone getting murdered - he can't be bothered to remember specifics.

The floor of the bar is sticky, uniquely gross in a way that only bar floors can be, and Sasha distinctly remembers knocking some dude down onto it once or twice. Nobody's started a fight there in awhile, at least not when Sasha's around.

Sasha sits in the corner, leaning against the shiny red vinyl of the booth, trying to protect his hand of cards from Zhenya's very obvious glances. Zhenya always cheats, and Sasha isn't sure why he still tries to play cards with him, except there's nobody else for him to play against. He sips at his drink, looks around the bar while he waits for Zhenya to play his cards, and immediately chokes on his drink.

It's weird how Sasha's life never overlaps with Nicklas outside of the gym, but it might be weirder when it does.

Nicklas is sitting at the bar, unmistakable. Maybe he'd blend in to anyone else, but Sasha has spent too much time over the past years staring at Nicklas to ever miss him. He looks good, his shirt pulled tight over his broad back, and Sasha takes a moment to thank whatever god might be out there that he isn't at an angle to see Nicklas' face. He's already positive that the combination of his eyes and the heathered green of his shirt would ruin his life.

Choking on one's own drink in a bar is not the most dignified thing to do, and Zhenya is an asshole, so he laughs before bothering to ask if Sasha is okay. Keeping some modicum of self respect and preservation, Sasha does not point out Nicklas. He also definitely does not look at him any more for the rest of the night.

Sasha sighs when Nicklas (and Nicklas' shoulders, and Nicklas' ass, which had, until recently, been less acknowledged, despite all its glory) leaves the bar, and Zhenya glares at him before folding and winning the round.

 

"I'll change the lightbulb."

Sasha almost jumps. The room was empty when he got there, sitting at the edge of the mat with his feet dangling. He's holding the ropes, focusing on the wall, trying to clear his mind. Uninterrupted, up to a point.

It shouldn't be okay just because it's Nicklas doing the interrupting.

"Your match tonight," he continues, and Sasha doesn't turn around, just sets his head on the rope in front of him. "I know the.. the blinking, it puts you off. I'll change the light before your match."

"Why?" Sasha asks, the only thing he can think to say. Why is Nicklas here, why does he care, why does he know that the light can be a distraction - the questions won't stop buzzing in his head.

Sasha hears quiet footsteps as Nicklas approaches, sits by the ring. He seems hesitant, almost, worried in a way Sasha hasn't seen on him before. It makes sense that it would be unfamiliar; he hasn't seen much of Nicklas, hardly anything outside of their practices.

It makes Sasha want to cry, held back only by some fear of being too vulnerable.

"You can win if you aren't distracted," Nicklas says; slowly, like he's picking his words carefully, trying to find the perfect way to say it. "I kept the light broken, never changed it. I wanted to see if you could work through it, get over the distraction. You're getting better, but I think… you can be better without it."

Sasha drags his hand down his face, across his eyes where tears are threatening to build. He nods, breathing shakily, nearly overwhelmed by, something, by Nicklas, by this unexpected kindness. The delicate nature of conversation in a place that otherwise brings nothing but pain and progress.

"I'll change the light," Nicklas says, his hand on Sasha's knee steady, bracing, soft.

Progress.

 

Sasha gets to the gym too early, takes his time in the locker room. He tries to clear his head, stop thinking about anything but the match, stop thinking about Nicklas. He changes into his trunks, the red fabric garish against his skin.

In the mirror, he doesn't look real; his eyes are dark, rimmed with bruises and rings from lack of sleep, his nose crooked, his hair falling like fringe against his forehead. He wraps his hands, imagining Nicklas' hands in their place; his fingers would be far more delicate as they brush against the curve of his wrist. He slings the towel about his shoulders, braces himself for a moment on the edge of the sink.

There are people waiting outside, waiting for Sasha, waiting for him to knock someone out for their entertainment. There are people waiting outside, and he can win, he's done this, he's trained for this. Zhenya is waiting outside, likely annoying whatever poor unfortunate soul who made the mistake of sitting by him. Sasha will fight, and Zhenya will cheer louder than anyone when he fucks up, when he gets punched in his face and his nose breaks again. Zhenya will cheer on the other guy, because he’s a dick, but he’ll still cheer louder when Sasha wins.

There are people waiting outside, and Sasha can win this.

Nicklas is outside.

Sasha is going to win this.

 

The guy's name is Mike, and Sasha doesn't know him. He only knows what Zhenya's told him, the shit he read on the fliers advertising their big matchup. Mike's local, apparently, been around the scene enough to know everyone he's had to fight, know how to beat them.

Sasha isn't local, but-

Sasha can win.

 

The lights are bright and the crowd is sizeable, more than Sasha's been in front of for a while. He’s not much of a draw, but a Saturday night's a Saturday night, and people love to watch strangers get hurt. It's unclear what the appeal is, watching two men who know nothing about one another fight like there's some old rivalry between them. Sasha doesn't know what draws people to watch, not like he knows what draws them to fight. That reasoning, he knows all too well.

Nicklas is waiting by his corner of the mat, patient, hands tucked into his pockets. He looks different than ever before, every time Sasha has seen him here in the gym. He looks hungry, almost - just this once not for his own victory, but for Sasha's.

"Remember, just think that he's trying to kill you," Nicklas says as soon as Sasha gets to the ring, his hair flashing in the light as he tucks it behind one ear. It looks like a kind of practiced movement, more a nervous action than a need to get it out of his face.

"Very reassuring, Nicky," Sasha says, pulling himself up onto the mat like he has so many times. "Everyone’s trying to kill me, even you."

"It's just a fact," Nicklas says, frowning, and Sasha misses the few flashes of his smile that he's had the privilege to see in the past months. "Michael could kill you, probably. Try not to let him kill you, and don't call me Nicky unless you want me to kill you, instead."

"Nobody gets to kill me but you," Sasha points out, grinning at Nicklas.

"Don't be stupid," Nicklas says, but he's almost smiling back, and Sasha is going to be stupid. As long as Nicklas is around, being his terrible, powerful, genius, beautiful self, Sasha is going to be _so_ stupid.

 

On the mat, there's nobody but Sasha and his opponent. Everyone else is out of mind, inconsequential if they aren't between the ropes. On the mat, Sasha can imagine anyone else in Mike's place, anyone but some Canadian punk who may well have a death wish. He doesn't have any reason to fight Mike other than an arbitrary matchup, but he has plenty of reason to fight someone else.

He ducks, swerves, avoids Mike's fists. The kid's fast, faster than Sasha, and his blows are hard. He's solid, and Sasha wants to wonder who he trains with, some other time when he can focus on something other than the fight.

Mike darts around him, tries to surprise him, and Sasha's been through that enough to see it coming, block his next swing and get a few hits of his own in.

By the end of the first Sasha's sweating, he can feel a bruise forming on his jaw, where Mike keeps going for.

By the end of the second Sasha can feel the sweat stinging his eyes. He ducks his head, goes back to the corner where Nicklas hands him water, hands him a towel for him to dry his neck. Nicklas says something but Sasha can barely hear him over the pounding in his ears, can hardly think about anything but the match.

The third round comes and goes fast, taking nearly as much as he gets. Sasha thinks about Nicklas, thinks about his little critiques, thinks about the dreams he has of Nicklas in the ring. Sasha blocks a punch and gets Mike with an uppercut, another hit while he tries to recover, and Mike falls to the mat with an all too satisfying thud.

 

The ref might do a ten count. He might not. Sasha can't tell, can't focus, just steps back to the nearest corner - the one without Nicklas, which might be good for his focus, really - and leans, slumping heavy against the ropes.

Sasha wins, and the crowd is deafening.

 

Sasha goes back to the empty locker room, finding some kind of comfort in the absence of any sound. As the buzz of adrenaline wears off, the wrappings around his hands feel too tight.  His chin is stinging, his shoulders hurt like hell. He turns the shower on, too hot to be comfortable, tries to wash the sweat and blood and everything off.

The locker room is empty but Zhenya is in the hallway outside when Sasha comes out, leaning against the wall. Tom stands awkwardly next to him, and Sasha thinks that might just be how he is.  He doesn't seem to quite fit in his body, like he doesn't know he's nearly six and a half feet tall and built like the fighter he is. Sasha doesn't know why he's there, but he doesn't think he minds.

"I'm good luck," Zhenya says, looking far too smug,his hands in the pockets of his too-big jacket. "We’re going out for drinks."

"What if I don't want to drink with you?" Sasha replies, bumping Zhenya's shoulder with his own.

"Then you're a shit liar. Shut up and come with us."

"Oh, shit, wait, is it alright if Mike comes?" Tom asks, too awkward still.

"Mike?" Sasha says, comforted by the fact that Zhenya looks as confused as he feels.

"Mike, the guy you just almost knocked the fuck out," Tom explains. "I doubt he's got any kind of grudge after just one match, and he'd be sad if I went out without him,"

"How the fuck do you know Mike?" Zhenya asks, punching Tom lightly in the shoulder.

Tom flushes a little, pulling his hat lower on his head as the walk out of the building into the cold. "We're just friends," he says, and Sasha rolls his eyes.

Mike comes with them, and Sasha feels bad about the split in his lip and the bruise blossoming around one eye. He always feels bad seeing the people he's fought; there's nothing bringing them together aside from the sport of it all, the thrill of winning.

"Oh, fuck," Mike says, three drinks and three too many down at the bar. "Fuck, Alex, is your trainer _Nicklas_ _fucking_ _Bäckström_?"

Sasha just nods, because what more is there to say to that?

 

It's been nearly two months, and Sasha hasn't read the article. It's folded, tucked into his wallet behind his credit card, the driver's license he only uses to get into bars. The slip of paper slides out sometimes when Sasha reaches in for his ID, and he can barely stop himself from staring at it.  It's Nicklas, he's sure - as if he was ever unsure of that stare.

Sasha has the photograph memorized, however he hates to admit it. It's Nicklas, glaring into the camera lens like he's morally against it. He looks like he does in a fight, furious, burning, gorgeous, incomparable. Nicklas' hair is slicked back from his face, shorter than it is now but similar, curling at the ends, tucked behind his ears. The photograph is black and white, for whatever reason, but Sasha can fill in the color with his memory- the gold of his hair, the flush on his face, the terrible, haunting green of his eyes that Sasha can't stop dreaming of.

In the photograph, Nicklas glares into the camera with a familiar sheen of sweat on his face. He looks fresh from a match, like he just got done pounding someone's face into the mat, only to be confronted by an interview, like it’s the most deeply insulting thing that's ever happened to him.

Sasha looks at it, some nights, when he's barely stopping himself from sneaking onto Zhenya's laptop to get onto a secure browser and search for anything he can find - in English, Russian, any language he speaks, about Nicklas.

His face is softer in the photo. His features are still pointed, glaring as sharp as ever, but his jawline is less distinct than it is now. It's three in the morning and Nicklas looks elegant, like a prince, like nobody who could ever be made for fighting.

Nicklas is beautiful, in a terrifying and contradictory way that Sasha constantly challenges himself to understand, only to give up and settle into what may well be love.

The headline is in Swedish, as are the contents of the article itself, and Sasha has given up on ever getting it translated. Translated or not, Sasha keeps the newspaper clipping, folds it up and tucks it into his wallet and resolutely tries not to think about Nicklas while falling asleep.

 

He dreams about Nicklas. It's impossible not to at this point.

Sasha trains with Nicklas, and the dreams don't stop. He can't sleep with the thought of Nicklas' hands, his shoulders, his eyes, staring so intensely down at him. It's not the best idea to fall for someone who pins him to the ground at least once a week, but Sasha's never been one for good ideas.

 

There's a match the next Saturday, and Sasha wins. He's been winning more, these days, since Nicklas left for a week and came back as maybe something of a friend.

In the ring, there's a certain focus, leaning into the ropes with the lights beating overhead, his opponent panting, the crowd waiting for him to win. It dissipates as soon as Sasha gets out, giving way to this almost manic buzz of victory, on worse days to the dull ache of the loss. Some days there's nothing Sasha can do but go back to the showers, go back home, try to sleep off the disappointment. Not everyone can win, someone always has to lose, but it shouldn't have to be him.

Some days Sasha loses, and it's a bitter feeling, but not today.

Sasha wins, and he can feel the sweat dripping down his brow, down his forearms when he pumps his fists over his head. It's all-consuming enough that he almost doesn't notice Nicklas' absence from the side of the ring. If Zhenya had been there he wouldn't have noticed, would have been swept up in familiarity, the lifelong feeling of winning with him. But Zhenya isn't there, he had something come up, and there's nobody there to congratulate Sasha but the screaming of the crowd.

On the walk back to the locker room, the silence of the hallway is somehow deafening. He showers, washes the sweat and blood off, changes into clean clothes barely acceptable to wear in public, just for the walk home.

The hallway should be empty; Tom's out of town, Zhenya is at work, Nicklas left to do whatever it is he does. There shouldn't be anyone there to bother Sasha, invite him out for drinks. He could go out anyway, try to drink off this buzz of winning, the high of knowing he's growing his reputation as one of the best. He could go out, buy a few drinks of his own, try to find someone to take home, but he's tried that, nobody's right, nobody's-

Nicklas is in the hallway outside of the locker room, back pressed against the wall, eyes closed tight, hair messy as ever. He looks like everything Sasha's ever wanted, everything he's ever going to want.

In the time it takes for Sasha to open the door, notice Nicklas, and subsequently want to hit himself in the face with said door, Nicklas' eyes snap open. The door slams shut behind Sasha, his bag slides from his shoulder, and he can't be bothered to care.

Nicklas looks- he looks like he does in the ring, some days, when he knows he'll win. He looks exhausted, tense, ready for whatever's coming. Sasha doesn't trust himself to say anything without fucking up and saying everything, but he doesn't have to say anything.

How anyone can formulate words, let alone full sentences around Nicklas, Sasha isn't sure.

It's quiet in the hallway, but Sasha can hear his heart racing, from the match, from the win, from whatever. From Nicklas.

From Nicklas, hands slipped into his pockets, his infuriatingly golden hair frizzing and tucked behind his ears. His eternally ugly grey sweater, tight around his shoulders, and Sasha wants to pull it off of him.

It's Nicklas who steps forward, takes up all of Sasha's personal space, runs his hands down Sasha's shoulders with some kind of gentleness. It's Nicklas who tilts his own head up, presses their lips together like Sasha has wanted to for years.

Nicklas' mouth is soft, his lips slightly chapped, and his shoulders feel huge under Sasha's sweaty palms. It's a lot, more than he'd ever expected, whenever he let himself think about it. Sasha does have some dignity left, and if asked, would not confess truthfully to how often he let himself think about kissing Nicklas. If, for whatever reason, someone asked, Sasha would lie with every fiber of his being and not say every night and every time he took a shower.

The thing is, Nicklas is strong. Sasha knows that, he'd have to be truly stupid not to. Nicklas has knocked him out and pinned him to the mat more times than he can count, and those memories have been the subject of his subconscious far more often than he'd like to admit. But Nicklas is strong, his hours at the gym more evident than ever when he pushes Sasha against the wall. He gets his hands in Sasha's hair, knuckles bumping against the brick behind his head, and Sasha feels like his brain short-circuits.

"Is this," Nicklas starts, and Sasha bites his lip for the interruption. Nicklas pulls back, planting a firm hand on Sasha's chest, digging his fingers into the curve of his shoulder. " _Fuck,_ Alex, come _on_ , listen to me,"

Sasha relents, if anything for the uncharacteristic pleading in Nicklas' tone.

"Okay, okay. Is this? Is this okay?" Nicklas asks, and Sasha takes in the sight of him; his hair sticking out in all directions, the flush that's spread all over his face.

Of course it's okay; it's better than okay, it's like winning a whole fucking tournament, but that's a bullshit comparison because no number of matches, no huge sum of fame and fortune could ever amount to this.

"You think it's not okay?" Sasha asks, tangling his fingers in the ends of Nicklas' hair, pulling the slightest bit just so that Nicklas will squeeze his shoulders. "I promise I like it."

"Good," Nicklas says, kissing Sasha softer this time, the frantic movement from before gone.

Sasha reaches to grab Nicklas' ass- it's exactly as firm as he's frequently imagined- and Nicklas swears against his lips. Nicklas pulls back again, and Sasha wants him back, wants the heat of his chest where they had just so recently been pressed together.

"I'm absolutely not fucking you in the hallway," Nicklas says, matter of fact, and Sasha pouts.

"Not in the hallway, but maybe the locker room?" He tries, keeping his hand solidly on Nicklas' ass, using his free hand to run through his hair.

"I won't fuck you anywhere in this building," Nicklas says, complete with an eye roll, and Sasha thinks he's definitely in love when Nicklas takes his hand and drags him out to the parking lot.

 

The lot is almost empty, everyone who came for the match having left already. There are a few cars left, but there's nobody out at this hour; everyone's at work, at bars, at home. Nicklas leads him to what's likely his car, a fucking SUV, of course, and Sasha corners him against the driver side door.

"Alex, please," Nicklas says, his voice unfortunately steady, and Sasha kisses his neck. "I'm not fucking you in the parking lot, either, asshole," he continues, flicking Sasha's ear and pushing him off, opening the car. So maybe Sasha only has to wait a few minutes, but Sasha's never been good at waiting.

The drive to - wherever they're going, Sasha realizes he isn't sure where Nicklas lives - is torture. Sasha sits in the passenger seat, and he can't take his eyes off Nicklas. Nicklas, with his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, his lips red, bitten. He presses fingertips to his bottom lip at a stop light, and Sasha thinks, wildly, that he did that.

 

Sasha doesn't pay any mind to the house itself when they pull into the driveway, his focus entirely on getting Nicklas to kiss him again, to pin him down. He follows Nicklas up the front steps, plants a kiss, open mouthed, on his jaw. Nicklas swears when he fumbles with the key, and Sasha bites down on a high point of his neck.

The door gets open, at some point. At some point they come into the house, and Sasha kicks his shoes off at the door, following Nicklas blindly to what he's hoping is the bedroom. Nicklas kisses him again, walks Sasha backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he falls onto it, waiting.

"I'll be right back," Nicklas whispers into Sasha's shoulder, pushing him with one hand onto his back, onto the bed. Sasha doesn't want him to leave, doesn't want this to be over, but Nicklas walks away nonetheless, shrugging his jacket off as he goes.

Sasha waits for what feels like a century, laying down with his head too far from pillows to be totally comfortable. He waits and it's like the fight catches up with him, like he's coming down from the high of the win and into exhaustion.

 

Sasha wakes up late, with sunlight pouring in from the window. The curtains are lacy, barely blocking any light, nothing he would have expected from Nicklas, like he could expect anything in the first place.

 _Nicklas_ , he thinks, searching the bed for any trace of warmth, any sign that Nicklas had been there. The bed is empty, but the blankets are rumpled, which is something, at least.

Sasha doesn't remember where the kitchen is, unfortunately, but it's easy to find, and it's empty, much to his dismay. He busies himself with making coffee, trying to find something in the cupboards to eat, when he notices a note, pinned with a magnet to the fridge. The handwriting is messy, scrawled at an angle across some scrap of paper.

 

_Alex,_

_I had to leave for work, because I have a job. Feel free to stay here, or go home, whichever. There's money for a cab in the jar on top of the fridge if you need it._

_Don't feel you have to leave, either. I should be back by 2, or 3, or something. We can talk then._

_Call me if you need anything, there's stuff in the fridge for breakfast (leftovers, sorry I'm such a bad cook)._

_I'll be back by 3._

_-N_

_P.S. We didn't do anything you have to regret, I don't think._

Sasha reads the note, re-reads it. Three times, maybe, going back to the top of the paper, over and over until he almost has it memorized.

Sasha reads the note, eats cold leftover scrambled eggs from the container in the fridge, and walks home.

 

They don’t talk about it, because Sasha can’t work his way up to being painfully rejected already. They meet at the gym, like they had scheduled the last week, like nothing's changed. In the ring, Nicklas doesn't say anything, doesn't _do_ anything, just dodges Sasha's hits and never pulls his punches. The usual.

It's more of the usual until they get out of the room and Sasha can't keep his eyes off of him. That would be normal too, if it weren't for Nicklas watching back. He watches Sasha, in the locker room, when he's pulling his shirt over his head to change, and it could be typical if he didn't press Sasha against the wall of the shower and kiss his neck.

So maybe it is normal, but it's a new side of normal.

They still don’t talk about it and a week goes by, and it’s something, something new, some kind of progress. Sasha still wakes up in his own bed, more often than not. The majority of the time he's alone, only sometimes being able to roll over and throw his arm over Nicklas' shoulders, keep him stuck in bed until he goes back to sleep.

"Alex, I have work," Nicklas complains one morning, smacking without any real drive at Sasha's forearm. He's warm, solid, and Sasha doesn't want him to leave.

"Call in sick?" Sasha pleads, snuggling closer to his side, curling up as effectively as possible.

Nicklas sighs, presses a kiss to Sasha's forehead, soft as ever. "I can't call in sick just because you don't want me to leave. The people need books, Alex."

"Stay here, stay in bed, stay with me," Sasha continues, using his weight as an advantage to try and pin Nicklas down. It doesn't work.

"I have to go," Nicklas says, and it sounds final. He pushes Sasha off and Sasha goes, pliant with sleep, however much he wants Nicklas to stay in bed. "Where's my sweater?"

"I burned it," Sasha answers, begrudgingly sitting up. "If I burn the ugly sweaters, you never wear shirts. I win."

Nicklas just huffs, shifts a pile of laundry to the side, making a little victorious noise in the back of his throat when he sees the sweater. It's offensively cabled, the wheat color almost blending with his hair when Nicklas pulls it over his head. He shimmies into his jeans, and Sasha watches unabashedly.

The way Nicklas looks at him, pushing the door open with his foot, is painfully fond. Neither of them says anything. Sasha doesn't think they have to, not anymore.

 

Sasha calls the library at three; his schedule is clear all day, and he knows Nicklas works the front desk on Tuesdays.

"University library, this is Nicklas, how can I help you?" Nicklas answers the phone almost immediately, his voice lovely to hear in its exhausted monotone.

"I'm a college student, I'm looking for books," Sasha says without being able to keep the smile from his voice.

"Are there any books in particular I can help you find today? I can put something on hold, if you'd like."

"I need books on a handsome, boring man, something that says if he'll come over again tonight. You have anything?"

"I can transfer you to the fiction department," Nicklas says, and Sasha can almost see him- that huge sweater, his hair still not brushed, undeniable sex hair that Sasha couldn't bear to point out to him earlier. He doesn't sound like he's smiling, but Sasha thinks he is, even just a little bit, clicking his pen against the counter.

"Can you ask him for me? You know him, big guy, strong, handsome, wears ugly sweaters. Very beautiful hair."

"I'll clear my schedule for this evening," Nicklas says, and Sasha almost says he loves him before the line goes quiet.

 

"Good lord, Alex," Nicklas says, pulling his shirt over his head. He came back after work, brought takeout with him. The two of them ate on the couch in near silence until Nicklas sat down into his lap, heavy across his thighs.

"What?" Sasha asks, grabbing the shirt from Nicklas and throwing it somewhere to the corner of the living room. He'll deal with that later, either when Nicklas leaves or when Zhenya yells at him for leaving his clothes around.

"You're just-" Nicklas continues, apparently drawing a blank. "It's nothing," He finishes, kissing Sasha again.

They go on like this for what feels like hours, what's likely ten minutes, and Nicklas goes still when Sasha moves to reposition them. His back is flat to the couch, Sasha's hands tangled in his hair, and he presses his hand to Sasha's chest, pushing him away.

"What's wrong?" Sasha asks, worried, worked up, halfway to broken.

"I'm sorry," Nicklas says, his fingers curling into the muscle of Sasha's shoulder. "I can't do this anymore, Alex. I'm so sorry."

Sasha pushes himself up to sitting, settled back onto his heels with everything he's wanted for all these years spread out under him.

"Alex, please, just say something," Nicklas pleads, moving to lean on the arm of the couch, crossing his arms over his bare chest, almost defensively.

Sasha nods, swallowing thickly. "Okay. It's okay, Nicklas."

"I'm sorry, Alex," Nicklas says, breathing shakily as he gets off the couch, grabbing his shirt from the corner of the room, pulling it on.

Nicklas freezes by the door, his hand on the handle, jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair is a mess, and Sasha knows he hates it, wants to tuck it behind his ear how he likes it. "I'll see you at the gym tomorrow?"

Sasha nods, looks away from Nicklas and stares at the floor. He doesn't go to the gym, not the next day, not the day after that.

There’s a match on Thursday. Nicklas isn’t there, and Sasha tries not to take it personally, even though it is fucking personal, and Zhenya takes him out for drinks after he wins, yelling and pounding his shoulders. Maybe there have been days when Sasha wondered why he kept Zhenya around, and this- this is kind of it, really.

Nicklas isn’t at the match but he’s at the gym the next day, working the bag with a vengeance that Sasha’s never seen. Sasha leaves early.  


 

“I have cash for dinner in my wallet, it’s on the table,” Sasha calls from the kitchen, rattling through the silverware drawer for something he’s forgotten about, by now. He grabs forks and spoons, just in case.

Zhenya’s flipping through Sasha’s wallet when he comes back into the living room, which is fine, typical, but- there’s still that fucking photo, somewhere in there, tucked under the $20 that Zhenya’s pulling out. The photo falls to the table, softly, and Zhenya’s whole face scrunches up when he sees it.

“Who is that?” Zhenya asks, picking up the paper, and Sasha’s probably pretty much fucked.

“It’s nobody,” Sasha says, tossing the silverware onto the couch cushions with an obnoxious clatter. “Just found it on the street.”

“This is in Swedish, Sasha, I’m not an idiot,” Zhenya says, even though ‘idiot’ is one of Sasha’s preferred descriptors for him. “Is this your mystery Swede from months ago?”

Sasha sighs, sits down on the couch. Apparently this conversation is happening. “He’s not a fucking mystery Swede.”

“Then why do you have a photo of some random Swedish dude in your wallet?” Zhenya asks, jamming one of the forks not overly gently into Sasha’s thigh. “Wait, fuck,” He says, scrambling for purchase on the couch cushions to sit up with the photo in his hand. “Is that- fuck, Sasha, is that Nicklas?”

“Maybe?” Sasha says, letting his head thump against the backboard of the couch. It doesn’t feel great, but neither does much of what he does, these days. “And maybe he is a mystery Swede, because he’s an incredible fighter and he won’t tell me shit about himself? And now I haven’t talked to him in a week because I fucked everything up?”

“Oh, Sasha,” Zhenya says, turning the paper over in his hand that isn’t occupied with the fork. “Sasha, Sasha, Sasha.”

“Stop saying my name like that.”

“Sasha. Have you heard of the internet?”

Sasha flips him off, because of course he’s heard of the internet. So what if he doesn’t want to be a stalker?

“Fuck, I thought you knew. How did you not know?” Zhenya says, cryptic fucker that he is, and Sasha opens his eyes barely enough to glare at him. “Hand me my laptop, I need to show you something.”

Sasha obliges; Zhenya types ‘Nicklas Backstrom boxing’ into the search bar, and why the fuck hadn’t Sasha done this yet?

There’s a video, in Swedish, but Zhenya gets English subtitles on it, and it’s better than nothing; it’s Nicklas, standing on the mat, and it’s like any boxing gym Sasha’s ever seen. There’s Nicklas, of course, his golden hair shining against the garish yellow of the towel around his neck, the blue of his shorts making his already pale legs look washed out. The light isn’t doing him any justice; he looks younger, like he doesn’t have the weight of the world resting on him, not quite yet.

The Nicklas on the screen, however many years ago, takes to the ring like some kind of beast. He looks like he’s snarling, landing hit after dirty hit on his opponent. It seems like no time at all before the other guy’s on his back on the mat, Nicklas pressing his knee into his chest, yelling something that Sasha can’t hear over the roaring of the crowd, and it’s over, the refs calling it and pulling Nicklas off of him. It’s like he doesn’t want to leave, like he’s this close to grabbing onto his opponent’s shoulders and clinging for all he’s worth, biting his throat out, finishing it for real.

The energy is predatory, nearly animalistic when he’s hauled back to his corner of the mat, and Sasha just watches as another video loads and plays.

“ _Backstrom Flyttar till USA, Jobba på professionell karriär trots svenskt förbud”,_ the next clip reads, and fuck if Sasha knows what that means, but he watches it anyway. It’s Nicklas again, of course, his face filling half the screen, his forehead bright with sweat, brow furrowed. The captions help, to an extent.

“I’m not going to be held back by some [inaudible] ban,” The subtitles read, flashing across the screen. Nicklas is speaking quickly, the words coming so fluidly, punctuated sharply with swears. “It’s [inaudible]. They’ll let me fight but they won’t let me actually fight, and I won’t settle for some watered-down matches with weak opponents. It’s all or nothing.”

The interviewer asks something that the translators don’t catch, and Nicklas answers with a curt “no”, the corners of his mouth turning down before the video cuts out.

“Does this answer some of your mystery Swede problems?” Zhenya asks, waiting for the next video to load. Sasha nods, dropping his head to rest on his shoulder. It’s a lot to take in, for sure; knowing suddenly that this man he’s half known for years now had a whole life that he left, for what? Fame, glory, fighting, gore?

Zhenya tilts the computer screen away from Sasha’s curious glance, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard before he finally clicks on something and turns it back. Sasha doesn’t get a chance to see the title, which is okay- the video speaks for itself from the beginning. Nicklas is there, as always, bleeding from a split in his forehead, a bruise blooming on his left eye, his hair wild around his ears.

“Those dirty hits earlier, what was going on?” The interviewer asks, right off the bat, and Sasha already wants to hit him. Nicklas doesn’t answer, just glares, that glare Sasha is so familiar with by now. “Half of your moves weren’t in the rulebook, and whenever the refs called it, you-”

Nicklas sets his jaw.

“The back-talk to the officials, don’t you expect better from yourself, now that you’ve matured?” The interviewer continues, and Sasha expects Nicklas to stay silent.

“Do you?” Nicklas asks, his tone like acid.

“Frankly, I do. Don’t they teach you to respect authority figures back where you come from, in Sweden?”

“Do you want me to stop?” Nicklas asks, and Sasha wonders what the fuck this reporter thinks he’s doing, pressing at anyone when they’re like this, pressing at Nicklas. He wonders if this asshole even knows who he’s talking to.

“I-” The interviewer starts, but Nicklas cuts him off.

“Would you like it if I stopped? If I started following all the rules, being perfect? Would that be entertaining for you, for the fans to watch?” Nicklas continues, his voice steady, his face expressionless. It’s one of the most attractive things Sasha’s ever seen, and he thinks there might be something wrong with him if this is what does it for him.

“Is that what the Americans do? They follow all the rules, do everything right, no dirty hits? No misconducts, no suspensions?” Nicklas says, waiting for the reporter to interject, this time.

“Not always, but all the best ones do,” The interviewer huffs, puffing up his shoulders with some kind of misplaced national pride. There’s a time and a place for that kind of thing, and this isn’t it.

“Do you think I’m a disgrace to the sport? To the art of the fight?” Nicklas asks, and his voice is like a knife, and Sasha isn’t sure how the interviewer doesn’t drop dead on the spot.

“I’m-” He says, trying one last time to prove his point.

“I won’t be taking any more questions,” Nicklas finishes, not bothering to spare the reporter a glance before walking out of the frame of the camera.

It’s been a while, and Sasha doesn’t know if he should miss him. All he knows is that he does miss him, whether or not he _should_ is a whole different issue.

There’s another guy, because- of course there is, of course that’s what was going on. Sasha is an idiot.

It’s been a week maybe since Zhenya showed him the videos, and they’re at dinner, because Zhenya got paid and they’re both too tired and lazy to make anything resembling a meal at home. It’s not too upscale of a place- it’s got lamps, tablecloths, but none of that candles-on-the-table bullshit. They’re at dinner, and Sasha’s trying to figure out what the hell to order while Zhenya’s fucking with his straw wrapper, and he sees him. It’s karma, or something.

Nicklas walks through the door in all his huge gorgeous glory, and Sasha- Sasha is a fool, but he would be more of a fool to say he didn’t miss him with everything in him. Something about it must show on his face, because Zhenya takes one look at him before he’s turning to see what’s going on. Sasha finds himself grateful, for the first time in thirty seconds, that this overly handsome dude is here to distract Nicklas from the fact that he is being blatantly stared at.

Zhenya kicks him in the shin under the table, some kind of ‘how could you let the man of your dreams run off with some sexy tattoo douche you absolute jackass’ kick, and Sasha looks back to the menu.

It’s hard not to pay attention to Nicklas, is the thing. He takes up space, takes up all of Sasha’s focus and brain power until its like hes the only person in the room, in the world. Sasha finally settles on something to eat, and Nicklas sits down when his- his friend, or whatever- pulls out a chair for him. Maybe Nicklas likes to be wined and dined or something, maybe that’s where Sasha messed this all up. Making out in the locker room after beating each other up isn’t exactly the most romantic course of action.

It’s nothing. The waiter comes to take their order and when he leaves, Sasha stares at his water glass. The guy with Nicklas takes off his jacket and he has strong arms, covered in tattoos; he could be a fighter, or something else. As if Nicklas could ever be with someone who doesn’t know the unique and wholly appalling desire to get knocked out.

Sasha may not know him that well, but he knows him well enough to know that much. That said, this guy looks like a fighter. Sasha wants to punch him, break his nose, fuck up his pretty face and show Nicklas what he’s missing. Sasha wants to break him, and Sasha needs a drink.

Sasha orders a drink, and it doesn’t exactly help matters. He tries to focus on conversation, give Zhenya shit about his shot when he brings hockey up, not look over to Nicklas and the handsome stranger he wants to hurt for being close to Nicklas in a way he can never be. Not anymore. He could’ve been, had his chance, blew it. Blew it like he does everything great in his life.

There’s a point between dinner and Zhenya grabbing the check when Sasha’s just… Watching, really. Maybe it’s a little creepy, but he can’t help it. The handsome stranger says something, a smile cracking across his oh-so-conventionally-attractive face, and Sasha swears he hears a laugh from Nicklas. Not the little quiet, reserved one, but a real laugh, loud and full and genuinely happy and so _Nicklas,_ somehow. It sort of puts the final nail in the proverbial coffin of Sasha’s hopes and dreams, hearing him laugh like he never did when they were- whatever they were.

They go home after dinner, and Sasha doesn’t dare to look at Nicklas as he walks by. He doesn’t want to know what he’d see if Nicklas looked back at him, returned his stare. Instead, he just walks, listens to Zhenya as he talks about his work schedule, his game schedule.

Sasha lays face down on the couch through three episodes of _House Hunters_ , his phone somewhere vaguely under his hip. The sound of the TV and Zhenya’s opinions on “fucking ugly patio furniture Paula, for christ’s sake,” nearly draws him to sleep.

His phone rings in the fourth episode, and Zhenya glares at him; Sasha flips him off and digs into the couch cushions for his phone. He doesn’t recognize the number, and nobody calls him, except for his mother and- well, just his mother.

Sasha mumbles a hello into the receiver, and nearly drops his phone all together when he hears the response.

“Alex?” Nicklas asks, his voice tinny, quiet over the phone, and he almost- he sounds sad, even though he shouldn’t ever. Sasha swears if that tattoo douche did something to make Nicklas hurt like this he’ll kill him. If it’s Sasha’s fault, well. He isn’t sure what he’ll do.

“Nicklas?” Sasha says right back, his spine and shoulders protesting when he pushes himself up to sitting.

“Did you delete my number?” Nicklas asks.

“You broke up with me?” Sasha says, because, well, didn’t he?

“I didn’t- fuck,” Nicklas says, and when he sighs it’s such a familiar sound that Sasha almost smiles. “I didn’t break up with you, Christ. We weren’t fucking _dating_ , Alex, we were. We were just fucking around, you can’t break up with somebody if they aren’t even dating you.”

“Did it even- did it mean anything to you?” Sasha asks, pulling a pillow against his chest. Zhenya gives him a look, shuts off the TV.

“Oh, Alex,” Nicklas says, voice quieter, softer than Sasha’s ever heard it. “It meant so much to me.”

“I can’t do this, Nicky,” Sasha’s- what, too tired, too worried about his heart broken again before he’s even done with this first wave of hurt.

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

Sasha hangs up.

  


He goes to the gym with Tom, because getting over something like this isn’t a reason to not do anything with your life. That mentality is bullshit. Besides, sometimes the best way to deal with one’s emotions is to knock a guy out and then get irresponsibly drunk with him. Sasha is an impeccable role model.

Nicklas said it wasn’t a breakup, but, well. Nicklas said a lot of things, messy haired and half asleep in Sasha’s bed. That’s in the past.

Sasha beats Tom in two of their three little bouts, and it feels good to get something right for the first time in a while. Tom undoes his hand wrappings, presses his thumb to a cut on his chin, thumps Sasha on the shoulder before he heads to the showers.

They have a plan to go out. They’re heading out when Tom stops at the front desk, talking to Andre about something useless. They finish talking, Andre pats Tom’s cheek a bit more fondly than expected before he goes, which is- something Sasha has to put on the back burner, for now.

Nicklas is walking in, windswept and flustered and fucking _gorgeous_ , and Sasha can’t bear to look at him for more than a moment. Tom waves at Nicklas like the traitorous dumbass he is before Sasha’s hurrying them out of the building.

“ _Jeeesus_ , dude,” Tom says once they’re outside, sparing a backwards glance through the glass doors. Sasha wishes he could look back too, but he doesn’t at the same time. It’s complicated. “Bad breakup?”

“Not quite,” Sasha says, trying not to grind his teeth together, clench his jaw.

“Okay, okay,” Tom concedes, and Sasha thinks that’s blessedly it on that conversation until Tom _has_ to open his big mouth again. “Just FYI, he’s looking at you like he’s fucking starving and you’re a bunch of, like, big sexy mean poundcake. Or something.”Sasha hip-checks him into a tree, just to put him in his place a little bit.

 

Nicklas texts him, because apparently he’s grown communication skills in the past few weeks, and Sasha kind of wishes he had blocked his number, rather than just deleting it. He texts perfectly, because, well, of course he does. There’s a little resentful part of Sasha that tells him Nicky does everything perfectly.

**From: Unknown Number**

_Can I see you?_

**To: Unknown Number**

_you saw me yesterday. didn’t say anything_

**From: Unknown Number**

_I would have, Alex. You seemed like you didn’t want to talk._

**To: Nicklas**

_well maybe i don’t now, either?_

**From: Nicklas**

_And yet you continue to text me?_

**To: Nicklas**

_I give up_

**From: Nicklas**

_Can we at least talk?_

_Even over the phone._

_You don’t have to see me in person if you don’t want to, I just have some things I want to tell you before we end all of this._

**To: Nicklas**

_just gonna clarify you’re the one who ended all of this_

_in case u forgot_

**From: Nicklas**

_I didn’t forget, Alex. I just want to talk to you._

  


Sasha’s phone is ringing before he can think of a response. Sasha is a fool, so he answers.

“What is it, Nicklas?” Sasha asks, maybe a little too gruff, but this isn’t shaping up to be the most pleasant of conversations, and it’s barely even started.

“I loved you,” Nicklas says, straight to the fucking point, and Sasha nearly falls out of bed. “I… Fuck, Alex. I loved you, and we were just fucking around, I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“You loved me?” Sasha asks.

“Yes,” Nicklas repeats, quiet. “I loved you, Alex. Every inch of you, god, even in the ring when you were doing everything wrong, I couldn’t stop loving you. It was too much, sometimes. I knew… I knew it wasn’t the same, to you. I couldn’t keep having you without having everything else I wanted from you.”

Sasha pauses. It’s a lot to take in, of course it is, it always is, with Nicklas. “How can you know it’s not the same for me?”

“Don’t fuck around, Alex, please,” Nicklas sighs, and he sounds so exhausted, Sasha wants to do something, let him rest, wrap him up in his arms and make sure he feels as loved as he should be. It’s hard to think about how mad he was at him, only five minutes ago. “I can’t deal with this from you. Don’t pretend you love me.”

“I’m not pretending, Nicky,” Sasha says, and there’s another sigh from Nicklas, then nothing. It’s like Nicklas hung up on him, but he didn’t; he’s still there, thinking, formulating his response.

“I told you not to call me that,” Nicklas says but he sounds like he’s crying, laughing, two extremes at the same time. He’s always been like that, polarities pressed into one body. “Can we start over?”

Sasha nods like an idiot before he remembers that Nicklas can’t see him- and god, does he want Nicklas to be able to see him. “You’ve gotta be more specific, Nicky.”

“I want a do-over, with you. I want- I want to pretend that I never fucked everything up, with you, I want to love you.”

“Okay,” Sasha says, nearly overwhelmed with emotion, within good reason. “Okay, Nicky. We can start over.”

“Will you let me take you to dinner?” Nicklas asks, like that’s the biggest step they’ve ever taken, like he hasn’t pressed Sasha into the mattress and whispered profane things in his ear. He says it like they barely know each other, because they _do_ , they’ve done so much but nothing in the right order. Maybe they skipped a few steps. Romance is new.

Nicklas wants to try again, take the relationship they had and put it in the right order. Nicklas wants to take him out to dinner, like they’re actually good people with their lives put together, and Nicklas wants this to work out. Maybe Nicklas wants to kiss him again, maybe Nicklas wants to shove Sasha down to the mat, still, but no hard feelings now. Nicklas wants this, and Sasha wants this, down to every atom of his being, he wants this, wants him.

Nicklas wants to take Sasha out, and Sasha lets him.

It’s progress.

  
  
  


Nicklas is anything but easy, and Sasha hates himself a little for ever thinking he would be.

**Author's Note:**

> notes for clarity/context:  
> -according to wikipedia, professional boxing was banned in Sweden in 1970, and the ban was partially lifted in 2006, when nicklas backstrom was 18. there were some limiting rules added to pro boxing, which i thought would be reason enough for nicke to move to the US.  
> -i love mike green with my whole heart, but sometimes the only solution to any of my problems is to pretend that he's kinda a bitch.  
> -last time i checked, there were approximately 30 references to nicke's hair in this. i may have a problem.
> 
> moving on from that!
> 
> i've been working on this since halloween, when i left a party early to watch creed and eat french fries and had my entire world flipped upside down in 2 hours by that fucking movie. inspiration taken from creed (because i still haven't seen any other rocky movies), the wikipedia page for the rules of boxing, the collected works of gabrielle calvocoressi, simon and garfunkel, and every video of ovi fighting that exists on youtube.
> 
>  
> 
> willy and latts are more of a background pairing to this, but if anyone is interested, i have vague plans to write a little side fic to this because i have precisely one weakness and it is michael latta. there's also the possibility of a greenie/nicke side thing, before mike mysteriously had to move to detroit for work.
> 
>  
> 
> tumblr @capitls/@junkeroni // twitter @mollstermash // playlist:   
>  https://open.spotify.com/user/plumbucky/playlist/6TZ9w9iFw9Gcgf3m3KM9Ne?si=mpMRAmVgR9q51e-aO5OPfg


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